Nueces Justice

by Greathouse, Mark

  She reflexively placed her hand over the amulet, feeling the beads. She pondered whether there might be a power within the colorful beadwork. If so, it was illusive for the moment. “Thank you, Three Toes.”

  “Stay safe, Miss Elisa. I am going to find Ghost-Who-Rides. I feel his strong medicine.”

  Elisa and Mike watched longingly as Three Toes mounted, turned his pony, and headed out to find Luke. For her own sake, she wished she could go with him. If only she didn’t have a farm to purchase and a young boy to watch after. If only…

  ***

  The rickety old wagon jounced along through the tall grasses of the Texas prairie. Ruts and arroyos from mostly dried-up streams and occasional gully-washer rains tended to slow them down, but they were making progress.

  Every time the wagon lurched, Perez moaned from the pain in his groin. He feared infection, as it still oozed blood. He was anxious, even desperate to get to Carrizo. To make matters more challenging, they were getting low on water.

  By Jorge’s reckoning, they were about half-way through their journey. Then the unthinkable happened. As the horses pulled hard to haul the wagon up from a dry creek bed, the rear axle snapped at the wheel. Perez nearly slid out of the wagon as its rear end dropped suddenly into the sandy soil. There was no way they could go on.

  There they sat, two men in a broken wagon with water running low and two nags that could, only loosely, be called horses. Perez remained totally unfit to ride, especially without a saddle.

  “Qué pena, amigo.” Jorge was distraught over the circumstance. “Qué hacer?” What indeed would they do?

  Perez tried to gather his thoughts as he writhed in pain from the jolt he’d just suffered. They clearly weren’t going to unhitch the horses and ride off to Carrizo. Perez hurt at the mere thought of it. He so wanted to get his revenge on that red-haired whore for putting him through this agony. The anger alone would likely keep him alive.

  Jorge was looking for a solution. “Qué tal un travois?” The travois was a way the Indians moved their villages. The contraption was pulled behind a horse. The elderly and young could ride the travois behind horses, along with teepees and other family belongings.

  A look of panic swept across Perez’s face. How could Jorge even think of that? He could barely endure his pain from the jostling of the wagon, and it had wheels. “No travois.”

  They considered the possibility of Jorge riding for help. If he was able to find any help out on the expanses of grassland, could he find his way back to the broken wagon and would whatever he found have a spare axle and perhaps extra water? Their quandary was exacerbated by the knowledge that, if they did nothing, they would surely die.

  As if on cue, the fates intervened. Off in the distance, Jorge saw a couple of wagons. Depending on whose wagons they were, there could be a chance for help.

  He leaped at the opportunity. “Iré a los carros y obtendré ayuda.” He swiftly unhitched one of the horses and swung himself up. He was off at something resembling a gallop to intercept the distant wagons.

  Perez was left in the wagon to ponder his fate. He could only hope that Jorge would succeed. However, he was a man of caution. What if the people Jorge was riding out to turned out to not want to help? What if they were bandits like himself? Perhaps a rival? He loaded the rifles.

  It took about an hour before Perez heard the sound of voices and wagons. The man holding the reins of the lead wagon appeared to be an Anglo. By his clothing, he wasn’t a native Tejano.

  “Puedes ayudarnos?” Perez called out.

  “I don’t speak your language, but I think I can help.” The man had an unfamiliar accent.

  Perez had heard Germans talk in Mexico, and it sounded German. A woman was driving the second wagon. From the look of their loads, they were moving a large household. Apparently, she didn’t want to leave anything behind, so two wagons were required. The horses were fine specimens. Perez surveyed the situation. It was just the man and the woman. There were no children.

  The man climbed down to look at the broken wagon. “I have an extra axel that should fix this.” The man was generous as well as naïve. Offering help to strangers on the Nueces Strip could be troublesome, to say the least.

  Perez nodded furtively at Jorge and by hand signal made like a pistol shooting. He picked up the rifle. The man had been bent over examining the broken axel. As he raised himself, Perez’s bullet caught him in the chest. Jorge was about to shoot the woman when Perez stopped him. “Violarlo primero.” He advised Jorge to rape her first. “En frente de mí.” And Perez wanted to watch.

  The woman was so horrified at what she’d just seen that she was momentarily frozen in her seat. She was fragile-looking and might have been considered by some to be pretty. She had blonde hair and wore a calico dress. Surprisingly, she was unarmed. After those couple of seconds of frozen hesitation, she realized where she was and what had just happened. She nearly dove from the wagon to get to her dying husband’s side.

  Jorge yanked her away. In one swift motion, the calico dress ripped and was lifted over her head. Perez kept the second rifle aimed at her.

  “No! No! Please kill me! I cannot…” Her words were stifled by Jorge’s dirty sweaty hand planted hard across her mouth. His odor nearly caused her to pass out.

  He’d already opened his trousers and forced her to the ground, pinning her under him. He pressed his lips hard against hers. He did as Perez had ordered. It didn’t take long.

  Perez found that he regretted ordering Jorge to rape the woman. It got him excited and caused excruciating pain. Again, his anger at the red-haired whore flooded his thinking. He wished he could be on the woman instead of Jorge. “Violarlo primero, de nuevo.”

  Jorge smiled. If he must rape her again, so be it. Who was he to argue?

  By now, the woman was all but passed out. Jorge’s heavy sweaty body on top of her was nearly suffocating. Jorge smiled. “Aquí vengo mujer.” He spit the words in her face. He would rape her again. Just as he sought to enjoy violating her even more, he felt a sharp pain in his side. He’d forgotten to remove the knife from his belt.

  She plunged it in a second time. Deep between his ribs went the razor-sharp blade.

  At the third stabbing, it was all Jorge could do to push himself away. He looked down at his side. Blood seemed to be everywhere. The woman was covered with his blood and now she was half-crying and half-laughing in her intense, panic-laden fear. Jorge stood, fell, stood again, and keeled over dead.

  She stood over him, nearly naked save for a sunbonnet on her head, the shredded calico dress barely covering her. Anger swept over her. Bloodied, she started to come at Perez with the knife held high. She was at the back of his broken wagon and trying to pull herself into it to get at him. He pulled the trigger. Nothing. The gun had misfired. He wacked the woman across the side of her head as she went to plunge the knife into his leg. She missed Perez and fell over unconscious.

  Perez was still very much in pain, but he was alive. He took stock of his situation. With great effort, he managed to crawl out of the wagon and stand. He was shaky, but at least he was standing. He took a tentative step while steadying himself on the wagon.

  Looking down, it was clear that Jorge Valdez was dead. Perez actually felt sorry for him. He’d tried to help him and as yet had asked for nothing in return. He smiled. The circumstances of what Jorge was doing when he died had at least been pleasurable to him. He almost laughed, but it caused too much pain.

  Perez looked at the woman, as she lay half-naked and out cold. He tore some strips from her calico dress and bound her wrists behind her. He figured to take one of the wagons, so with great effort managed to get her up into the lead wagon just behind the seat. He bound her ankles. She’d not be running away and might eventually prove useful. Nearly naked, she’d have tough going on foot on the Texas prairie.

  The horses were too good to leave behind, so he spent another hour in pain unhitching the team from the second wagon and tying them behind
the first. He placed the two rifles and Jorge’s pistol in the wagon, and then slowly and painfully hauled himself up into the seat. He’d placed a blanket under him, but the pain was still just shy of unbearable.

  He took a final look at the scene around him. Some buzzards were already circling overhead. Once he was gone, they’d swoop in.

  He had a general idea as to the direction to Carrizo and headed out.

  ***

  Luke was drawing ever closer to Carrizo. He’d seen no sign of Perez. The only life he’d encountered in his travels thus far, other than the indigenous longhorns and an occasional varmint, had been a couple of folks moving their household goods in two wagons. He’d advised them to be cautious. He moved on, as they were traveling far too slowly for his purposes.

  As Carrizo came into sight, he decided to find a place to camp. There was enough high ground that he could get a fairly good panoramic view of the area east of the village. The landscape wasn’t unlike what he’d encountered weeks earlier when he was hunting Bad Bart Strong. With any luck, he’d spot Perez and his wagon long before the outlaw could discover him. The Ranger felt it wise to avoid the local residents, as there was still enough resentment from Callahan’s adventures of the previous year that they just might give him away to Perez.

  Luke got to thinking on some of the questions Elisa’s little brother Mike had asked. One of them especially confounded him a bit and that was trying to define what a Texan was. He didn’t find it easy, as the folks he’d encountered were drawn from multiple cultures, though Texas could hardly be called a melting pot.

  It began with the indigenous tribes, from the cannibalistic Karankawas along the coast to the thieving Apache and marauding Comanche and Kiowa of the prairies. The Spanish came in and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to establish a string of missions, one of the most famous having been the Alamo in San Antonio. Moses Austin cut a deal with the Spanish powers-that-be to settle in central Texas. Moses died and his son Stephen brought frontier-tested transplants from Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Tennessee to settle central Texas.

  To their south, the population was heavily Mexican. At this stage of Texas history, a cultural mix of mostly Catholic and Protestant religions had evolved combined with French, Irish, and German cultures. Soon enough, they’d be joined by wealthy plantation owners from the southeastern United States. They formed a loose coalition to settle the land while fending off frontier threats.

  Luke concluded that a Texan was a sort of amalgamation. The common thread that seemed to be the Texans’ strength was a sense of loyalty to Texas whether as state or nation, combined with an inner resolve and abiding commitment to family and faith. Yes, loyalty, family, and faith. Texans were a tough bunch that you’d want on your side in any fight, but it all comprised what Texans were about. Thinking on family brought Luke back around to thinking of Elisa. He’d long since given up on ever returning to Ireland, as his commitment, his loyalty, was to Texas. He smiled knowingly as if he’d just enlightened himself of some grand truth.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Laredo Surprise

  Sheriff Whelan made it through San Antonio without incident. He avoided the saloons. He needed to stay focused on the Laredo whore, and steeled himself against any distraction.

  He continued to deal with his guilt over Scarlett’s escape. He realized the irony in her using the very wiles he found unable to resist. Perhaps there’d be some redemption if he brought her back to Corpus Christi.

  One night, he found a place to rest along the banks of the Guadalupe River. He made a fire and cooked up a coyote he’d managed to shoot a bit earlier in the day. He was about to pour some coffee when he was interrupted.

  “George? That you?”

  The voice from the darkness sounded familiar. “Sam? Sam Smith?”

  Smith approached, walking his horse behind him. “Haven’t seen you in a long time, my friend. Where you been?”

  “You hungry, pilgrim?” Whelan motioned the man to join him.

  Smith pulled a cup from his saddlebag and sat opposite Whelan. He grabbed the coffee pot and filled his cup. “Where you headed, George?”

  “Austin. You?”

  “Actually, I’m headed to Victoria. Have a bit of livestock buying to do,” Sam told him.

  “You’re welcome to bed here and share my fire, Sam.”

  “Thanks, George, but I need to just about ride all night to get there on time.” He paused. “What’s in Austin?”

  “Chasin’ down a whore who escaped from jail in Nuecestown. She’s wanted for murder in Corpus Christi.”

  Smith shook his head with concern. “I don’t figure you heard about the shooting in San Patricio?”

  “Shooting? No.”

  “Might be the same bitch you’re chasin’.”

  “You know more?”

  Smith laughed. “It was a sort of fitting circumstance, George. As I heard it, she shot the cajones off some Mexican bandit who was out to get her. Sort of turned the tables on the sonofabitch. Now, he’s headed to Mexico in a wagon, and that Ranger, Captain Dunn, is on his tail.”

  Whelan tried to fully absorb what he was hearing. He felt confident that Scarlett Rose was the woman in question. “Sounds like something she’d do, Sam. Damn!”

  “You’d best be careful, my friend. She ain’t no one to mess with.” Smith tipped his hat to Whelan and put his cup back in his saddlebag. “I best be goin’, George. Thanks for the coffee. Best of luck. You be careful, you hear?”

  “Thanks for the warning, Sam. You ride careful now.” Whelan had a feeling that his old friend wasn’t dealing in a legitimate livestock deal. It wasn’t in the man’s bones to be an honest broker. In any case, he’d sure given him something to think about. He’d need to be extra cautious in Austin, as this might not be as easy as he thought it might be. He also rather envied Luke on his hunt for Perez. Getting Perez while he was vulnerable was a good strategy.

  ***

  Once he had a good idea where Ghost-Who-Rides was headed, Three Toes made good time. He found some wagon ruts that the Nueces Strip weather hadn’t yet destroyed. It looked like two wagons with heavy loads. There were no outriders or trailing horses, so it would be easy to stay on the track.

  He rode through the night, being especially wary. He had too many potential foes on the prairie, ranging from rival tribes to Mexicans to Anglo settlers to soldiers. He looked forward to catching up with Luke. He sensed that Ghost-Who-Rides was conjuring up more strong medicine. Three Toes felt it in his bones.

  His thoughts occasionally strayed to his people. He wondered how his wives were and whether any were now pregnant. He was confident in Long Feathers leading the Penateka to join the rest of the Comanche up on the Brazos in the Texas panhandle. The weather would be turning cold soon, and he hoped there’d be no problems.

  ***

  Carlos Perez was making good time. This stolen wagon was in far better condition, with well-greased wheel hubs and a sturdier frame. He calculated that he was about a day out of Carrizo.

  The woman finally came to. She quickly became aware of her dire circumstance. She felt vulnerable in her near-nakedness, and was helpless to defend herself, much less cover herself with the torn calico dress. Modesty wasn’t an option. She remembered the swarthy Mexican who’d raped her and paid with his life. If she got the chance, the ugly man up on the wagon seat would meet the same fate.

  She didn’t know a lick of Spanish. She wanted to know where they were going and what he was going to do with her.

  Finally, Perez looked back to see how she was doing. It pained him to turn in the seat. She noticed by his facial expression that he was injured; likely seriously.

  “Are you okay? Bueno?” That was one of the few Spanish words she knew. Perhaps she could ingratiate herself with him.

  “Cállate!”

  She had no idea that translated into her shutting up. Its firm delivery gave her a vague idea of his intent. She looked pleadingly up at him.

  Perez spit
in her face and turned back to driving the team.

  The pain was getting worse. Sitting up had been a bad idea, even with several blankets under him. Combined with the extraordinary effort it had taken to unhitch horses, get the woman in the wagon, and climb up himself, he was exhausted. He actually began to feel faint, an undesirable outcome.

  As he focused on staying awake, a thunderhead rolled up to the west. The lightning from such a storm was a great worry. The grasses were widely known to be highly flammable. Prairie fires were an all-too-common occurrence on the Nueces Strip, especially up toward Laredo and San Ygnacio. Being in a slow-moving wagon in a prairie wildfire was highly detrimental, to put it mildly.

  The woman was able to poke her head up above the seat level. She could see the fast-growing thunderheads as easily as Perez. She knew enough to be worried, even to the verge of panic. Wildlife running from any fire could be nearly as dangerous as the fire itself. Rattlesnakes, longhorns, javelina, fox, deer, coyote, and all manner of varmints would flee the flames.

  A bolt of lightning shot from the sky, then another. The storm was moving fast toward Perez and his captive. Soon enough, he spotted the tell-tale smoke. He was headed toward a prairie wildfire. It was spreading quickly. Wildfires were natural to the Nueces Strip, but Perez was convinced that a higher being had it in for him. “Dios, te odio!” He screamed out his hatred for God. His Catholic upbringing was far behind him.

  Perez pulled up the wagon. He needed to decide which direction to go. He spotted what appeared to be some sort of break in the grasses a few hundred yards to the south. Could he reach it in time? Would it be adequate?

  His woman captive was now in total panic. Her eyes bugged and she began to scream. Perez reached behind him and hit her twice across the face. Once again, his pain was excruciating. “Como se llamo?”

  Why did he care what her name was? If she got a chance, he’d be a dead man.